Having asked sum uther inquirys, ov a mixed natur, i santered down tu where the rase koarse waz.

THE TRACK.

I found the track waz about a mild in circumferense, and ov a sandy disposishun, fensed in by a kranbury mash on one side, and a brush fense on tuther, and in jist about 3 minnet condishun.

The judge’s stand waz an ox cart surrounded on the sides bi a ha rigging, and the reporters waz invited tew git intu the cart.

THE HOSSES.

Waz a gra mare, about the usual stature, not verry fat, and laboring under a spring halt, which tha ced she had caught ov anuther hoss, about 10 days ago.

Tha ced she had trotted tu a kamp-meeting last fall inside ov a verry short time, and that her back bone waz awl game.

I asked a yung man with long yeller hair and bedtick pantyloons on, who waz currying oph the mare, what her pedigree was, and he with a wink tew anuther feller who stood clus bi, ced, “she waz got bi the Landlord out ov a Methdiss minister,” and then tha both laffed.

I found out bi inquirin, that her name waz “Fryin-Pan.”

The uther hoss waz a red hoss, rather hastily konstructed, with a spare tale on him, which tha ced waz kaused by his trotting so fast, in a windy day; i shud think he waz about 5 feet and a haf in hite, and ov a kickin natur.

Tha ced he waz a stranger in theze parts, and that his rite name waz “Juise Harp.”

FUST HEAT.

The hosses both cum up tew the skore in the immejiate visinity ov each uther, and got the wurd tew go, the fust time.

The gra mare waz druv bi “Dave Larkin,” and the hoss was handled bi “Ligh Turner.”

Tha trotted sublimely, az cluss az the Siamese twins; the mare with her hed hi up and her noze full ov winde; the hoss waz stretched out tite, like a chalk line; tha passed the haf mile pole simultaneously, time, 2 minnits.

Now the kontest becum exsiting, “Dave” hollered, and 461 “Ligh” yelled—on tha kum, the mare gru higher, and the hoss gru longer—tha make the last turn tew onst—tha look like a dubble team—the exsitement grows more intensely—the crowd sways to and fro—the ox cart trembles—tha cum! tha cum! sich shouting, sich yelling, sich swearing, sich chawing terbacker, waz never herd before; the mare iz ahed!—no, the hoss iz ahed! ’tis even, ’tis a ded hete, tha pass the ox kart—the hoss wins bi 3 quarters ov an inch, time 4 minnits lacking 2 seckunds.

REMARKS.

The hosses ar surrounded bi a crowd ov men, wimmin, and children.

Each party are sanguinary ov suckces.

The bettin iz 2 quarts ov whiskee to anything, on the red hoss.

At this junkture the gentleman, reporter for the Young man’s Christian Gide, propozed tew bet 75 cents that the mare wud win the nex heat; i tuk the proposishun forthwithly, and the steaks, bi mutual consent, was placed in mi hat and sot under the kart, and here let me stait, before i forget it, that i haint saw the steaks nor the hat sinse.

SECKUND HEAT.

The hosses both sho signs ov distress.

The gra mare’s ears hang down the side ov her hed, like two wet rags, and the hoss rests his tale on the ground.

Tha go slola bak tew the distanse pole, and cum up agin tew the skore, az tho tha waz yoked together.

Awa tha go; the hoss a leetle ahed.

The hoss leads tew the haf mild pole in 2:30.

On the bak stretch, “Dave” went at the mare with hiz long purswader; she trots like litening, she passes the hoss! no! she busts! she busts! and befour “Dave” cud flatten her down tew her work, she broke from the trak and trotted clean up tew her hips in the krambery mash.

The hoss cum in awl alone, trotting fast, and so clus down, that 2 feet ov his tale dragged on the ground.

Time ov this heat, not fur from 5 minnits, “Juise Harp” winning, bi a quarter ov a mile.

Thus ended the grate rase at “Sulphur Flats.”

I immejiately started on foot for “Jamaka Rum four corners,” bare headed, but fully impressed that, tho men, and even whiskee mite deteryoate, the breed ov hosses must begin tew improve in that seckshun ov the kuntry in a fu dais.